THEMYSCIRA
Atrius stood frozen as the voice of the woman thrummed through the air, low and resonant like a hymn woven into the marrow of the world. The lake's surface quivered, rippling outward in concentric rings, as if the song itself carried force—an unseen vibration strong enough to make water shiver.
His eyes glazed, locked in place.
Within his towering frame, his bones rattled like struck chimes, trembling in rhythm with the unseen harmony. The marrow itself seemed to sing. His muscles spasmed, clenching beneath the plates of his armor as if his flesh was no longer his own.
This was not a psychic attack. Not the foul caress of the warp. No—this was something else.
It was a lure.
But unlike the whispers of Chaos he had grown to despise, this was no feverish temptation of power, no gnashing of unseen teeth. This was gentle. Soothing. like lullaby, meant not to seduce but to cradle. A warmth that stripped away vigilance, leaving only weakness—an invitation to lay down arms and yield.
thump.
With little resistance, his body buckled. He sank to his knees, not in defiance or submission, but as if resting—relaxed, almost reverent.
The woman flinched, faltering in her melody. Her gaze flickered, confusion breaking the calm mask. She had not expected this to happen.
Unconsciously, Atrius's head turned, eyes still glazed, toward the small figure that now lingered at his side, his mouth opened as if to speak. His body was unharmed—but his mind was being pulled apart. Something deeper stirred within him, something buried.
The world that came to him was ancient, a land scorched and naked beneath the sun.
The desert stretched endless, dunes shifting like waves under the whip of the wind. Rock crumbled into sand, sand hardened again into stone, the cycle of eternity grinding away under a sky that offered no mercy.
Yet within this furnace of death lay an oasis, a paradox of green and water, a fragile miracle set against desolation.
There, by its mirrored surface, sat a child.
His eyes were swollen, puffed from endless tears. His hair was white as salt, his pupils red as burning coals. His small hands were caked in mud, his skin mottled with bruises and scars, fresh and old alike.
He stared into the water silently. The reflection of his face stared back, shimmering under the desert wind.
Then, the water bent. The reflection distorted, warping as though touched by unseen fingers.
From the rippling surface, a figure took form.
A man in golden armor. Eyes like smoldering forges, steady and terrible. Hair white, and a face untouched by time—serene and unyielding.
The child's eyes widened. Panic seized him.
"#$#%$%^!" He shrieked in an unknown tongue, scrambling backward, heels digging into the sand. His body trembled as he forced himself upright, fists clenched into a stance that belonged not to a boy but to a cornered beast.
He was too young for such fire. Too fragile for such defiance. But cruelty had not given him a choice.
Two years old—he had been torn from his mother and the golden guardian who had shielded them. Swallowed by a storm of colors, a kaleidoscope of horror that devoured their protector. His mother seized by men with iron hands and soulless eyes. To him, they were simply bad people.
He was left alone. Alone in the wilderness. Alone against hunger, thirst, and the night. Alone against the scavengers that prowled above and below the sand.
For three years, he survived. A child of the dust, clinging to life with bloodied hands. The oasis was his only refuge, his fragile Eden.
Until they came.
Men with chains and leashes. Hunters of the weak. They cornered him, beat him down, caged him like an animal, and sold him as chattel.
And so began the second crucible.
Thrown into pits for their amusement, he was forced to fight—beasts, men, monsters. He who had known only survival was now made to perform it for jeering crowds.
He was seven years old. By then his hands had killed more than any child should even witness. By then the earth itself whispered his curse.
They called him names—child of the witch
"horror is all you shall know," they said.
a child of misfortune.
And misfortune followed him still.
For the heavens themselves grew wroth.
Fire fell from the sky like rain, consuming the cities of his captors. Towers crumbled, screams filled the air, and the earth itself split open to swallow the wicked. Men, women, children—all turned to ash.
But he remained.
He alone crawled from the ruins of stone, mud, and blood. Alone. Always alone.
Now he sat once more at the edge of the oasis, staring at the waters where it had all begun.
He leaned closer, searching the water.
Only his reflection met him now. Bloodied, hollow-eyed.
No golden giant.
Just himself.
He lingered there, hollow, until a shiver ran up his spine. Slowly, he raised his gaze to the left.
And then—
krrrshhh, tink-tink-tink
Atrius felt as though he had been struck by the full force of a Land Raider charging headlong, the blow of its adamantine hull shattering through his mind. His psyche reeled, splintering into jagged fragments.
The images ripped apart like broken mirrors, each shard cutting as it dissolved.
Hhhhuuh!
A gasp tore itself from his throat as he wrenched back into the present.
Night had fallen. The world was dim beneath the shroud of trees. He found himself leaning against a rough-barked trunk, his breaths sharp and uneven.
The woman lay nestled at his side, her head resting lightly against his arm, asleep as though untouched by the storm that had just raged within him.
Atrius's eyes were wide, haunted, his chest rising and falling as he stared past the branches into the dark.
The song was gone.
But its echo lingered—in the marrow of his bones, in the pit of his heart, and in the hollow silence that followed.